


Distance

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-22
Updated: 2002-10-22
Packaged: 2019-05-15 19:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14796455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: CJ/Toby Poem





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Distance**

**by:**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, you know that.  
**Category:** Romance/Poetry/ CJ and Toby  
**Rating:** CHILD  
**Summary:** CJ and Toby count tomorrows.  
**Written:** October 10, 2002  
**Author's Note:** I've always liked poems (well, the certain type of poems) because they're foggy and surreal and rhythmic, the words are a lot more magical and dreamy than in a normal story. I like that in a text, not always but sometimes it's ecstatic. I wrote this one when I was writing another story and I just couldn't come up with anything (plus I also got a little bored with dialogues), and it was late and I suddenly remembered this one short poem I'd written a couple of years ago for who-knows-what. So, I dug it out of my pile of papers in the dark, dangerous depths of my drawers and wrote a story inspired by it and this one Anna Ahmatova's poem 'At night' (you should read her poems. Even though they're sometimes really out there, some of them are very good). I know this isn't exactly a typical poem, it's more like _poemish_ , but that OK, and I'm not going to yarn about it anymore.  
**Dedication:** To Yesterday.

She hears the steps before the knock on the door. Once again, he has come. The shadows start lurking behind the windows, they reach in, they never leave a mark. The door opens and closes, trapping the world behind it when they

     hide.

Beyond the shadows there's the world where everyone can see them, no protection, too much reasons, too much explanations. They're not ready to come clear. During the day there's only brief glances that say nothing at all and said words that don't mean anything. But they both can hear the distance screaming, screaming when they're apart, away from the secure cloak of the darkness. 

         The day offers no mercy.

They have done this many times before, hid behind the curtains and in the shadows where _no one_ can see them

      or hear them.

Silent words they've whispered into each others ears, promises they've given but never kept, 'tomorrow' they say, tomorrow they'll tell the world, expose their shadows. But before that they'll hide in them, make love in secrecy and flee before the dawn comes.

      It's the way it must be.

Once again he reaches his hand to touch hers and once again she grabs it, the distance between them is no longer _screaming_ as their lips meet. Love is a mystery, they say, it can't be hurried by the meaninglessness of the daylight. Once again this man and this woman forget the outside, brush it aside like some old pile of dust, to touch and love.

    But the moment is brief, time is only sudden, it is gone before they even realize. The shadows that had sucked them in, rocked them in their safety, are now only shadows, not shelters. Soon they'll vanish in the break of the dawn. Once again, 'tomorrow' they promise, even though they both know tomorrow will never come.

  Once again the touch shatters, the bodies break apart. He turns away, he turns his back to leave and, between another useless promise and the emptiness in her heart, he is gone.

              The moment is brief, time is only sudden, she tells herself, and the count of tomorrows is endless. At that moment, when the moon wanders across the sky aimlessly, shrieking in its beauty, the sound of silence is deafening and the ripple of the waves covers all the other voices. Only one stands still, silent, doesn't make a sound, only in the inside

                                    screams.

_"At night" by Anna Ahmatova (roughly translated)_  
   
In the sky the moon barely alive  
in the middle of the stream of the brittle clouds.  
A sullen guard by the palace  
angrily stares at the steeple clock.  
An unfaithful wife is going home,   
her face is hard, reticent,  
and the faithful is burnt by longing   
that the tight embrace of the dream can't extinguish.  
And what about them? A week ago I sighed,  
threw my farewells to the world.   
But in my room the air was musty  
and I left to the park   
to look at the stars,  
to touch the Lyre.  
 

_The original poem (roughly_ translated)  
   
The moon wandered over the bridges  
aimslessly  
in its beauty it shrieked  
the ripple of the waves was deafening  
the rustle of the leaves and   
the wailing of the wind in the graveyards  
were heard louder tonight than anything else  
but one stood silent, didn't make   
a sound, only in the inside  
screamed 


End file.
